


Thankful For You

by Periwinkle39



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Pandemics, Thanksgiving, jonsa, just having a little fun, while procrastinating this week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periwinkle39/pseuds/Periwinkle39
Summary: Amid the pandemic, Sansa is stuck in King's Landing away from her family during Thanksgiving. Turns out, so is Jon.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 167





	Thankful For You

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, instead of working on my WIPs, my brain continues to be distracted by shiny objects. This trifle of a fic is just a little fun for anyone who is stuck away from family on this Thanksgiving Day. If you chose not to travel, good for you. You are doing the right thing! Also, if you're alone through this pandemic, and missing friends and family, stay strong! We can get through this! Lastly, please honor and support the Native people of this continent however you can.

The day starts at 5 a.m.

It has to because the dough for the dinner rolls has to rise twice and the rolls must bake before the turkey goes in. There’s a schedule to follow. Stark Thanksgiving “dinner” is always served in the early afternoon. Sansa may be doing it all by herself this year, but she is not skipping a single step.

She does make plans, however, for a future kitchen with two ovens.

She’s not going to be by herself, entirely. Her brother’s boyhood best friend is coming over, but Sansa is doing all the cooking. A full feast of Turkey, stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, salad and, of course, home-baked dinner rolls.Exactly as her mother does it. Giving up her family for Thanksgiving this year—thanks, coronavirus—doesn’t mean Sansa is giving up the food. This is and has always been her favorite holiday and she’s celebrating it no matter what.

Arya, Bran and Rickon have been at home this whole time. Sansa has heard all their complaints about online classes and being around mom and dad 24/7, but she’s sure they’re happy about being home today. Just as she’s sure they’re still deep asleep.

Robb has been in a bubble with his fiancé Jeyne and her parents since the start of the pandemic, so even though Sansa knows he’ll miss Thanksgiving in Winterfell as much as she will, he’s still with family. That’s probably why he insisted that she invite Jon over.

The perpetually sullen boy Sansa remembers was a fixture in her childhood, practically tied at the hip with Robb from time immemorial, but she hasn’t seen him in years. Jon rarely spoke to her and she never gave him a second thought. When Robb told her, upon her acceptance to an MFA program in creative writing at King’s Landing University, that Jon lived there as well and that she should look him up, it occurred to Sansa that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him, couldn’t remember if she’d even noticed he’d left. She hadn’t bothered until now, but she likes the idea of sharing her Thanksgiving meal with someone who will at least appreciate what a production the Starks make of the holiday every year. It’ll be awkward being alone with him, no doubt, but it’s Thanksgiving.

Nothing can ruin this day for her. Not even the sound of her alarm at 5 a.m.

She pushes herself out of bed, the yeast activates and once the dough is oiled and ready to rise she takes a quick power nap before getting up to start on the rest.

* * *

It’s 10 a.m.

She’s elbow deep in stuffing when she sees her phone next to the “heirloom” roasting pan she splurged on, on which the perfectly brined as yet unroasted turkey sits.

It’s Jon.

Sansa wonders if he’s going to cancel. She feels a momentary pang of disappointment. They had agreed to quarantine for the two weeks before Thanksgiving, so she's been looking forward to the company for a while. But then she remembers how much she has come to enjoy being on her own over the last few months.

The excitement of the big city, the nerdy thrill of her coursework and, a few weeks in, the bloom of a new relationship she did not yet know would turn toxic—everything she felt when she arrived here has given way, in this most unusual of years, to the understanding that she doesn’t need much to be happy, certainly not a controlling boyfriend. In the spring, when the relationship crashed out and the pandemic arrived and it became clear that she’d have to ride it out mostly by herself in a new city, she had never felt more alone. But eventually, she shook it off. There is no room for loneliness in the life of a budding writer working on her first novel. She has learned to depend on herself, and while she will always long for home and wishes she were there now, she knows she has the strength to make the best of things. 

* * *

It’s about 10:30 a.m.

Stuffed and trussed, the turkey is much heavier than she anticipated but she manages to get it into the oven. A little later than she planned, but still on track to eat before 3 p.m.

She showers, puts on a casual dress that will be comfortable for the hours of chopping and cooking ahead of her. She also finally listens to Jon’s message. Instead of canceling, he called to ask what time he should come over.

Sansa catches her reflection in her bedroom mirror and wonders if she should change into something fancier, but shrugs off the impulse. She braids her wet hair into a long rope that she twists into a bun at the top of her head. She puts a dusting of make up on, just enough to feel like herself. She’s not trying to impress anyone.

She texts Jon back.

**_Sansa:_ ** _Food will be ready around 3, but feel to come over whenever._

**_Jon:_ ** _ok_

She smiles at his brief response. Obviously, he hasn’t changed much.

* * *

It’s almost noon.

A hot hot _hot_ guy with vaguely familiar curly dark hair and intense grey eyes that she does not remember ever looking directly into is standing at her door holding a pie she didn’t ask him to bake.

“Hi.”

Sansa stares.

Jon stares back and, after a long moment of silence, narrows his eyes. “Can I come in? It’s Jon.”

Sansa finally snaps out of it. “Hi! Of course! Yes, come in! Come in!”

He takes a tentative step in and gestures with the pie. “My mom said not to show up empty handed so . . .”

Sansa takes it from him and sees that it’s not a store-bought pie. “You made this?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Sansa takes a sniff. “It’s not apple.”

“Pear. I’ve been ordering groceries online, and on Thanksgiving week, I figured these would be less picked over.”

“Thank you. It smells amazing. Sorry for spacing out. You look . . . different than I remember you.”

He runs his hand through his hair nervously. It’s so long it touches the collar of his jacket. “I haven’t had a hair cut all year.”

“Yeah, same,” she says, feeling herself blush, since it’s not like he can tell how long her hair is at the moment. “It looks great. I mean—it suits you.”

He smiles and looks away. At least Sansa thinks it’s a smile. She wants to hug him all of a sudden. She cannot with a hot but still bashful Jon Snow who brings pie and makes her think of home.

_Can. Not._

He starts to take his jacket off and she ushers him into her small one-bedroom, setting the pie on the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. She lifts off the plastic wrap off so it can breathe next to the pumpkin pie she baked the night before.

“Can I get you something to drink? I made a white wine punch to make myself feel less bad about drinking before noon. I also have beer. And just wine. And some gin and vodka, I think.” She bursts out laughing. “I have non-alcoholic drinks too.”

He chuckles in what Sansa assumes is clear confirmation that she’s rambling and making an ass of herself. “Punch sounds good. I always remember Stark Thanksgiving being a little boozy, anyway.”

“Right?!” she replies and is thankful he’s here. He gets her family. He will get her on this day. She realizes in the moment that she needs that.

After taking his jacket and hanging it up, Sansa pours him some punch as he looks around her living room. He’s wearing khakis and a navy sweater and looks grown up yet non-pretentious. She smiles watching a grin blossom on his face when he spots the pictures of her family on one of the few shelves not lined with books. He turns and catches her staring.

“When was the last time you saw everyone?” she asks.

“Last summer—not this past summer. Last year. Mom came down here for Christmas.”

“So it’s been over a year since you’ve been home?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought about going earlier this year, before this recent wave hit, and kind of wish I had.”

“It’s funny how much more you can miss a place when you’re not allowed to go there.”

She nods and walks back around the bar to hand him the glass. “Here you go.”

After taking a sip, he says, “Wow, that’s good.”

“Mom’s recipe. Blame the pandemic for finally making Catelyn Stark loosen her iron grip on all the secret family recipes.”

He looks at her with those intense eyes over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip.

Sansa wonders just how red her face is right now and says, “Can you excuse me for a second?”

In the bathroom, she takes her phone out to text her sister.

**_Sansa:_ ** _Since when is Jon Snow hot?_

Thankfully, Arya responds right away.

**_Arya:_ ** _Since never ew_

**_Sansa:_ ** _You don’t think he is?_

**_Sansa:_ ** _When was the last time you saw him because I have news for you_

**_Arya:_ ** _We FaceTimed three days ago. he looks like a fucking caveman with that hair lol_

**_Sansa:_ ** _You don’t think it looks good?_

**_Arya:_** _I don’t think of him that way_ 🤷♀️

**_Arya:_ ** _do you??_

**_Sansa:_ ** _No!_

**_Sansa:_ ** _I don’t know._

**_Sansa:_ ** _He just walked in the door and it threw me for a loop_

**_Arya:_ ** _Him walking in the door threw you for a loop?_

**_Sansa:_ ** _His hotness threw me for a loop_

**_Arya:_ ** _I can’t believe you think he’s hot. It’s Jon ffs_

**_Sansa:_ ** _It’s an objectively observable fact!_

**_Arya:_ ** _lol ok_

**_Sansa:_ ** _shut up_

**_Arya:_ ** _I’m taking screenshots of this for the sibling chat_

**_Sansa:_ ** _I’ll kill you_

**_Sansa:_ ** _seriously please don’t_

**_Arya:_ ** _fine_

**_Arya:_ ** _if you want to sleep with him you might as well. he’s def single_

Sansa pushes that information to the back of her mind and puts her phone back in her pocket. Looking at herself in the mirror she regrets not making more of an effort but too late for that.

After a deep breath, she comes back out. He’s looking at her bookshelves but turns on hearing her come back into the room.

“So how can I help?”

* * *

It’s 1:15 p.m.

Jon peels and cuts the potatoes while Sansa preps the salad and green beans.

Sansa tries very hard not to get distracted looking at his hands or the way his forearm muscles flex with the knife in his hand. He catches her watching him and asks, “Am I not doing it right?”

“No! I mean, you are. Sorry, I’m spacing out. Probably hit that punch a little too hard.”

He sets the potatoes aside and offers to make a small lunch to tide them over. Sansa nods and when he asks if a grilled cheese sandwich made with some Havarti dill he found in her fridge is ok, she says yes like he just asked her to marry him. They eat on her small balcony, which overlooks a small commercial district. Sansa loves the neighborhood and spends more than she should on rent, but even as quiet as it is today, her view is worth it. It’s a chilly afternoon for King’s Landing, but they’re warm from the kitchen and Northerners to boot. It’s not cold if it’s not below zero.

They laugh at how quickly they agree about this.

Sansa decides she loves Jon’s laugh, the way his face lights up and the sides of his eyes crinkle. It’s quiet, like he’s embarrassed to be caught laughing. She wonders if that’s because of her or if that’s how he always is. She wonders if the differences that she’s seeing in him are actually differences in him or in her.

Although he’s not terribly talkative, they managed to catch up enough while working in the kitchen that she knows he’s in King’s Landing because of the Army, which he joined out of high school. He was stationed in the North at first at Castle Black, and then came here for a few years until he was discharged. She wanted to ask why he didn’t go back to Winterfell, but something about the way he quickly turned the conversation back on her makes her think there’s a story there. She didn’t push him, though, and answered all his questions about her creative writing program and how she’s been holding up during the pandemic. Jon apologized for not having checked on her sooner—not because he thinks she needs help but because he knows the city is not always a friendly place.

Looking at him as he leans on the balcony railing, Sansa thinks the city feels friendly right now. Magical, even.

* * *

It’s 10 minutes to 2 p.m.

The list of reasons Sansa is glad Jon is there with her is getting long, but at the top is the fact that it takes both of them to get the turkey out of the oven. After putting the green bean casserole in the oven, Sansa tents the turkey. Jon is looking at his phone, which started buzzing while they were dealing with the turkey.

“That was Robb on FaceTime,” he says. “Do you want to call him back?”

“Oh, yes! Let’s!”

Jon returns the call and without thinking it about it, Sansa leans into him so she can see. She doesn’t have time to wonder whether he minds because Robb’s grinning face comes up on the small screen.

“If it isn’t my two favorite people!” he says, and Sansa hears Jeyne call out, “Hey!” in the background.

“Except for you, darling.”

“Hi, Jeyne!” Sansa yells back. After a lifetime of finding Robb’s long string of girlfriends annoying, Sansa is delighted that he settled on someone she likes. 

“How’s Quanransgiving so far?” Robb asks with a laugh. “Hey, Snow, did you do what I said, yet?”

“No,” Jon says with an eye roll that makes Sansa curious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jon says quickly, but she notices that his ears turn red.

Robb takes them around the Westerlings’ kitchen, introducing his future in-laws. They talk for about twenty minutes and before they hang up Robb tells Jon to “do the thing,” at which point Jon says a curt, “Goodbye!” and ends the call.

Sansa is about to step away and ask again what Robb is talking about, but Jon turns and she feels physically held by his stare. He tilts his head ever so slightly and looks her face up and down and Sansa is sure that despite having spent all day on this meal, she wouldn’t complain if he pushed everything to the floor and took her on the kitchen counter. He opens his mouth to say something when the shrill ring of the oven timer breaks the silence.

* * *

It’s 2:55 p.m.

Everything looks and smells amazing. Sansa can’t quite believe that they managed to pull off Thanksgiving dinner as they sit down to eat.

There’s a lingering awkwardness after what Sansa is sure was an almost kiss, but as they dig in Jon asks her about the novel she’s writing. He looks genuinely interested and just like that the mood is recalibrated. A sweet, soft look in his eyes that she wants to keep entirely to herself.

“It’s a retelling of the most common legends about the Northern Freefolk told from the perspective of a young girl in one of the more powerful clans,” she says. “Kind of a mix of historical fiction and some supernatural elements.”

“That sounds . . . incredibly cool.”

“It’s young adult fantasy so by definition, it’s the least cool thing ever.”

“I’m excited to read it.”

“I have to finish it—and find an agent. _And_ get it published. So don’t hold your breath.”

Jon chuckles. “When did you get so self-deprecating?”

“What?”

“You always seemed so confident when we were kids.”

Sansa shrugs. “I just faked it well.”

“Well, don’t sell yourself short. I have no doubt, you’ll do it, and that there will definitely be an audience for it. When I was in the Army we used to study Free Folk history. They were incredible warriors . . . strategic and cunning in a way few give them credit for since we get a very limited, very white washed view of who they were in school. I remember learning it and just wanting to know more. All of us did.”

“Yeah, the research has been fascinating. I’ve done so much I almost feel like I could write a non-fiction book about them.”

“You should definitely do that too.”

Sansa smiles. They keep eating and talking. Sansa wonders how it can be so easy to just . . . _be_ with someone. She wonders if he’s enjoying her company like she’s enjoying his.

* * *

It’s 3:47 p.m.

They’re stuffed. Everything was delicious and seconds are obligatory, which pleases Sansa because it means getting around to dessert will take a while, which means he’ll be a round for a while. She wonders if it would be forward to suggest he stay there for the night, considering they’ve been drinking pretty much all day. When they got up from the table Jon pledged not to leave until the clean up is done. They can clean up tomorrow as far as Sansa is concerned.

They’re sitting on the sofa, continuing to sip on wine and somehow end up shoulder to shoulder, leaning on each other like age-old friends. Maybe that’s what they are.

“You know, we never said what we’re thankful for this year,” Sansa says. “I mean I know this year is fucked, but I’m thankful my parents are doing well and nobody in my family has gotten sick.”

“I’m also grateful mom is OK,” Jon replies.

“I’m grateful Robb and Jeyne didn’t try to put everyone through a pandemic wedding.”

“Hear, hear,” Jon replies, lifting up his wine glass so Sansa can clink it with hers, which she does with a giggle that lets her know she’s a hair past tipsy. “I’m thankful that being an introvert has turned out to be a solid life skill.”

Sansa laughs more heartily at that. “I’m thankful I learned how to make bread this year.”

“Those rolls were fucking awesome.”

“Thank you! They were, weren’t they?” After a beat, she says, “I’m thankful for virtual classes. The other people in my program are . . . a lot. I guess creative people are by definition, but still.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Sansa sits up. “Wait, what? Are you taking classes?”

“Uh, yeah. When I got discharged I figured I needed to do something with my life.”

“What are you studying?”

“Library science.”

She stands up. “You’re going to be a _librarian_?”

He looks up to her with a confused expression. “Not necessarily. It’s like . . . data management stuff, mostly.”

“No, you’re going to be a librarian.”

He smirks in a way lights her up. She motions for him to stand up, which he does. The smirk giving way to the confused look again.

“You’re a hot pie maker who is going to be a librarian.”

He steps closer and Sansa can feel his breath on her face and also everywhere on her body.

“Do you mean hot pie maker as in, hot guy who makes pies or guy who makes pies that are hot?” he asks in a knowing, husky whisper.

She lets out a long breath. “I’m saying I’m thankful you came over Jon.”

She thinks he’s going to kiss her, but he eyes the top of her head. “Can I ask you something, Sansa?”

“What?”

“Just how long has your hair gotten?”

She steps back with a laugh and undoes the bun and the braid. There’s still a bit of moisture in it that she feels against her arms when she shakes it out. It’s down to the middle of her back.

“I’m thankful for this,” he says. Jon runs his fingers through it as they kiss.

* * *

It’s almost midnight.

They've had dessert. And seconds of dessert. They've cleaned up. They've had more wine. They've kissed. And kissed. They've done a lot of kissing.

His arms feel warm and soft around her as they lay on the sofa together.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“What was Robb talking about earlier?”

"Huh?"

"When he asked you if you'd done the thing he said you should do?"

"Oh," he chuckles. “Asking you out.”

She giggles into his chest. “My answer is yes."


End file.
